


End (It's Impossible to Know)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [47]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Character Study, Gen, Heavy Angst, Unplanned Pregnancy, i have a gender studies degree: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Ana does not regret the things she could never have had, for they were never hers to regret.  That, she will content herself with.  That she must.  To hunger for what could never have been hers would serve no purpose, would only hurt her, would only distract her from the things in her life which are good.  So she does not let herself feel it; she quells her wanting, her ambition, and tells herself she is satisfied.  (Longing stays with her, even so.)Or,A look at Ana's choices, or lack thereof, over a period of twenty-eight years.





	End (It's Impossible to Know)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: DISCUSSIONS OF ABORTION AND MISCARRIAGE. I didn't want to tag them so that people wouldn't go searching for tragedy porn and find this fic, but both, particularly miscarriage, are discussed at length in this fic. If those are triggering for you at all, I'd advise that you skip this fic. It is not fluffy, even if it is hopeful.
> 
> I started this wayyyy before Bastet (I first planned to write it in February 2017 LMAO) but up until today I never got around to actually writing most of it. Fortunately Bastet confirmed for me that Ana and Sam divorced, and that Ana wanted to be Strike Commander, inter alia, so I was like I GOTTA POST THIS BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE WRITES A BASTET FIC THAT LOOKS TOO SIMILAR TO MY FIC. Bc I don't want ppl to think I'm plagiarizing lmao. 
> 
> Before we start:  
> 1\. The characters' views on religion and abortion are not necessarily reflective of my own.  
> 2\. I've never been pregnant myself, but a person very dear to me whom I will not name for the sake of her privacy has had a number of miscarriages, and I was present for several of them, so I've tried to treat this topic as sensitively and realistically as possible.  
> 3\. You might think that one character in this reacts the 'wrong' way to the situation, but you really don't know how you'll react til it happens. Furthermore, I am not saying anyone reacts the 'right' way either. People just respond.

2078.

Regret greets Ana like an old friend; a phantom arm around her shoulders when she sees an old picture of her and Gabriel, the ghost of a kiss to the cheek when she thinks of the family members who passed when she was dead, a greeting they will never again share, memories of the way past lovers’ hands fit in hers as she wonders what might have been if they had been different, if the world had been different.  Ana knows regret, and intimately so, wakes to it and walks with it every step that she goes.

So it is with great certainty that Ana can say that what she feels when she sees Fareeha talk with Brigitte is not regret—not quite—is another beast entirely, is not guilt over something she did or did not do, is instead only a question, a _what if_ , a nagging sense that, had the world been different, perhaps her life might have been, too.  One cannot mourn something— _someone?_ —that never was, but one can _long_ for it, even knowing that things turned out for the better the way that they are.

(Ana has enough to mourn already, or so she tells herself, has lost more people in one lifetime than most could bear to—what good would it do her to mourn her second child who never was?  What could it accomplish?  Years ago, she told herself she would not mourn, and so she does not, will not, cannot, but she never promised not to feel _longing_.  Even knowing that things are better, this way, only one child hurt by her “death,” only one child to struggle to rebuild a relationship with, only one child to have failed, she cannot quite quash that feeling, when she sees Fareeha mentoring Brigitte, who is the same age her second child might have been, and thinks _my daughter would have made a good older sister,_ knows it would have made her happy.)

Ana knows regret, knows well how _physical_ it can be, a punch in the gut or a tug in her heart, and knows that this is _not_ regret, for she cannot feel this, never touched that which she never had, and can conjure no sensation to mark an absence, a lack, can only wonder what might have been—even as she knows that this is the best path her life could have taken.

( _Best_ is perhaps an overstatement, but with the choices she felt compelled to make, it is the best possible outcome given her circumstances, perhaps.  There are other, better presents that never were available to her, never could have been, for she had not the power to be born in another time, another place.)

No, Ana is content with what she has, with whom she has in her life and where her path has lead her, even if she arrived here painfully.  Given the chance to live her life over, there is nothing Ana would change, _nothing,_ for what she has now—her daughter, her friends, her purpose—is not worth jeopardizing in the search for a mythical _best_ outcome.  Even that which she regrets cannot outweigh her gratitude for what she has.

This does not mean that regret is not there with her, every step of the way, does not mean that she can silence it, does not mean that _it was for the best_ and notions of noble sacrifice serve as anything more than empty platitudes—but as familiar as regret is, it does not rule her, and neither does this, this strange half-mourning, this longing for another, gentler life.

It has, of course, occurred to Ana that she would not be suited for such a life, that she would be bored or worse—unsatisfied, unfulfilled—and that would lead her down darker paths than the ones she has trod willingly, but it is not the lack of a quiet life that troubles Ana, only that she has not had the _choice_ to have one.

Choice, or the lack thereof, _that_ is what troubles Ana, and it is not only war which denied her it.  With _that_ , she can never content herself, no matter how long she tries.

For no matter how many regrets she has from the consequences of her actions, Ana can content herself with the results—or at least accept that she is responsible for them.  But the choices which were stolen from her?  Which she was denied by time, by circumstance, by accident of her birth?  Those outcomes over which she had no control?  How can she not be angry?  How can she not be furious?  How can she not let it _consume_ her the knowledge of what might have been had the world not denied her the choice to—

_No._

No, Ana does not regret the things she could never have had, for they were never hers to regret.  That, she will content herself with.  That she must.  To hunger for what could never have been hers would serve no purpose, would only hurt her, would only distract her from the things in her life which are good.  So she does not let herself feel it; she quells her wanting, her ambition, and tells herself she is satisfied.

Longing stays with her, even so.

 

2052.

They were, all of them, too quick to celebrate in the aftermath of the Omnic Crisis, too incautious, made so by the headiness of victory, they were all of them foolish, they were all of them heedless of the potential consequences of their actions—yet it is only Ana among them who can bear children, and thus only she who must bear the consequences.

That much, at least, she has come to expect.  With Overwatch it is always, somehow, she who is accountable for deaths as the field medic, and not Gabriel who calls for a charge, or Reinhardt, who disobeys orders, risking lives in the process.  In the end, no matter what any of them say, no matter who is truly to blame, it is she who must fill out casualty reports, she who must say the names of the dead, she whom she feels is at fault, despite a thousand empty platitudes.

There is always death on her hands, with Overwatch—and now, a life.

Not for the first time, she finds herself looking at the results of a pregnancy test and wishing it read differently, and that ought to be a comfort, ought to make it easier, for she has a child already, has a daughter she loves, and knows that she can make motherhood work, knows that a second child will be easier than her first was, given that she has already had all the necessary and difficult conversations with her family, given that she knows how to care for a baby, given that she has survived the Crisis, and will not have to leave her infant behind in favor of fighting for the future of humanity.

This ought to be different from the first time, and it _is_ , it is, but not for the reasons she thinks it should be.  Last time, she was frightened because she was uncertain of her own ability to parent, afraid that parenthood would limit her, concerned for how her family might react; now, she fears none of those things, but the one certainty she had before—that she _wanted_ Fareeha—is not here, not this time.

What does that mean for her?  What would someone hearing it think of her, as a mother?  She cannot help but think that it sounds like a condemnation of her daughter, or her experience of motherhood—after all, whilst raising one child she adores, should she not _want_ more?  If she loves Fareeha as much as she says, would she not feel the way for a second child?

But this is not a child, she tells herself, not yet—is not even a baby.  Six weeks is far, far from viability, is before an audible heartbeat, if she remembers correctly.  This could-be baby is not one yet.

She cannot help, then, but remember that Fareeha was a baby to her, at this point, was from the moment she began to suspect she was pregnant.  For all of her fear, there was no hesitation in accepting motherhood, then, like there is now.

Surely that must reflect poorly on her, must make it sound that she has rejected the role of motherhood thus far.  That assumption would be incorrect, of course, she _is_ a mother, will always be one, will accept the term and the role forever.  No one and nothing could stop her from being Fareeha’s mother, not truly, but to be mother to a second child, this one?  That is where she falters.

(She will never falter when it comes to her daughter, that much she knows.)

What makes this pregnancy so different from the first, if not prior experience of motherhood?  She finds herself wondering that in the seventh week, her usual tea substituted for a ginger blend which settles her stomach.  For all that she was frightened, with Fareeha, she was also _excited_ , and told her commanding officer far sooner than was advisable, in order to ensure that she would not be ordered to do anything which might have caused undue risk—and here she is, eight years later, finding ways to hide her nausea, her tiredness, the change in her demeanor as the question of a second child weighs more and more heavily upon her.

This time, she has not even told Sam. 

She ought to, of course, she knows that—but the timing is so very poor.  She ended their relationship the last time they spoke, did so over call, after their reunion five weeks ago was so outwardly perfect, so _lovely._ Naught but five hours later realized she was two weeks late.

Nothing is like it was with Fareeha—the timing of her daughter’s birth likely saved her life, as her maternity leave began less than a week before the first attacks, and therefore kept her out of the field in the earliest days of the Crisis, before anyone knew what they were doing.  This child is not so fortuitous. 

They ought to be, ought to be _luckier_ , if anything.  When Ana left to fight in the Crisis, Sam gave her a ring, and they promised one another that when this ended ( _if,_ Ana did not say, but thought even then), they would have a proper wedding, and at the time, she believed it—but it is impossible, now, to imagine that life, to imagine giving up on Overwatch now, just as it finds itself becoming something _more_. 

They need her, her Strikemates, and she could not leave them, could not return to civilian life after all she has seen, all she has done.  It is not for her to be a wife, a mother who bakes cookies after school, an ex-soldier who slides into civilian life and learns, again, to let down her guard.  It is not for her to lie in bed beside a man so sweet and gentle as Sam, so loyal as he, and to talk about the future—not anymore.  Whoever Ana was before the Crisis, before Overwatch, that woman is dead, buried so deep Ana knows she will never be able to dig her up.  So she will not marry Sam, cannot; he is widowed already and does not know.

Instead, Ana hopes to become someone entirely new, someone even less like a woman Sam could love.  When she hears that Jack has put his name up with Gabriel’s in contention for the position of Strike Commander with the formalized Overwatch, she does the same.  It is a far cry from packing to move to Canada; it feels _right_.

If she were to have a baby now, what would become of that?  They will need her, in the coming months.  Adawe has told her as much.  Both Jack and Gabriel are a good deal more impulsive than they ought to be—a side-effect of SEP caught much too late—and neither Reinhardt nor Torbjörn has the will, the _means_ to steady them.  For Ana to take maternity leave in the first months of Overwatch’s transformation would be a deathblow to the organization.  They need her.

She knows, of course, of the risk she runs with this—if she lets them depend on her now, they might _always_ need her—but it is a risk she accepts.  When she became a mother, she accepted one lifetime responsibility; she can take on one more. 

(One more, and one more only—the thought of two is suffocating.  For the first time, she admits to herself that she does not _want_ to be pregnant again.)

She has time yet to choose.

Or she would, if it was for her to choose—it is not.  Her interview at eight weeks does not go well, is over before it has begun in earnest. 

Before she goes in, Adawe ensures her that this is just a formality, that she will easily pass through this round with the Security Council, and into the second before the special task force assigned to the governing of Overwatch, of which Adawe is director.

Instead, she does not last through the first five questions. 

  1. Her name and rank? Those she knows. 
  2. Confirmation of her service record? Easy enough—it is pristine, no demerit in boot camp to sweat over like Jack, no tough calls in the Crisis that still draw criticism as Gabriel had. 
  3. Is she interested in the position of Strike Commander?  
  4. Why? It certainly seems as if the Council is satisfied with the answers she provides.
  5. Can she come to New York next week to speak with the special task force? No, no she cannot.



No?  No. 

Why not?  Because it is Fareeha’s birthday, and her daughter already arranged to come to Switzerland—where Overwatch is at least temporarily headquartered—to be with her.  She cannot leave an eight year old to fend for herself in a foreign country, and has missed all of her daughter’s birthdays so far.

Will she always be putting the needs of her daughter above the needs of the world?  This from the representative from the United States, and she tells him honestly that she does not consider those two to be at odds—protecting the world protects her daughter.

They are at odds now, the French representative observes, and she tells him, honestly, that she does not think delaying an interview by a single week or doing it by holo-conference in any way threatens world security.

The representative from China whispers to the Russian representative, and she knows then that she has lost.

So now this second child and her future are not at odds—that much she is certain of—yet, still, she finds herself balking.  After all, if a single child she is raising with Sam is enough to end her chances at promotion, is enough to call into question her _loyalty_ and her _devotion to service_ (as if she were not an Amari, as if she did not sacrifice the first eight years of her daughter’s life to such an idea, as if she ever put so much as one toe out of line), what would a second do? 

Already, the younger soldiers joke that she mothers them, already she finds foisted onto herself the additional emotional burden of caring for all the recruits’ needs, their homesickness and their trouble adjusting, already, her own feelings are dismissed in the same way that so many women’s are, as lesser or untrue because she does not excise them _violently_.  If she were pregnant again, all of those things would only be compounded.

(Some of them, she would mother if they wanted it: the women of color, in an institution run by mostly white men, or the Muslims, who like her must make their own needs known an organization built around Christians, or the other people who are not Western, whose ways are treated as foreign and odd or, worse, representative of their entire nation.  Some of them, she would mother, but those are the ones who ask her the least.  Instead, she finds herself caring for Jack and Gabriel again and again, and wondering when _this_ became her job.)

It is frustrating, to imagine this problem worsening, is _terrifying_ , and for the first time she thinks about it, aborting the child.

That scares her—she is Muslim, has always been, and while other Muslims may think differently, the Islam of her parents has no room for abortion.  Just to think it makes her feel guilty, and she wonders what has become of her, that she might have considered it even for a moment.

Sam thinks she is depressed.  He tells her this when Fareeha has gone to bed, and it is just the two of them awake in her temporary lodging in Geneva.  When he says it, she crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture both defensive and meant to keep her hands from wandering elsewhere.  At nine weeks, she finds herself all too often cradling her as yet nonexistent bump, which threatens to give her away.

So what if she is, she asks him, he is not meant to be here anyway, was meant to put Fareeha on a plane and to stay home, in Canada, where he is happiest and she can more easily keep him from noticing how tired she looks, how easily smells make her nauseated, how she has changed her diet.

He just wants to help her, she knows this, came here not with the expectation that they rekindle their relationship—for he knows her well enough to know that once she is decided on something, she cannot be swayed—but intending to care for her, because he thinks she needs someone right now.

She does not, does not need him or anyone.  It is not for her to be the object of care, particularly not now, is she who ought to be caring for others.

Still, his statement clings to her, like a miasma she feels it when she breaths in too deeply, shakes her head to clear it and the thoughts which come, unbidden, it trails after her when she slips too early into bed. 

Even entertaining the thought is foolish; she is _not_ depressed—saddened, yes, by the things she has seen and has done, by the people whom she has lost, but that is not _depression_ , is nothing so irrational.  What she is, is _grieving_ , and he cannot help her mourn, not when he is only another reminder of all that she has lost.  This she tells him, and none too gently, when she orders him to book his return flight home for the end of the week, when Fareeha’s visit was meant to conclude.

It will be easier when she is rid of him, she tells herself, of the burden of keeping a secret, of watching her every move in fear that she betrays herself. 

 _Easier_.

Not having a baby would make her life easier, too, and she wonders if that is why she is entertaining the idea, if she only thought of abortion because it would be simpler for her, not to have a child.  That only serves to make her feel guiltier still—but she can no longer deny the appeal of the idea, even as the part of her which remains very much the product of her mother’s upbringing tells her that it would be wrong, would hurt her as well as the child.

To have an abortion would hurt her, that she knows is true—but to keep the child would hurt her too.  If she cannot heal while Sam is here, how can she do so while she continues to carry another of his children? 

Already, she is sending Fareeha back to spend another school year with her father, for fear that as she is now she could not care for her daughter—they have agreed, she and Sam, that when she is better, their daughter can spend school years with her and summers with her father, but it is all too obvious that as of yet she is not ready—and knowing that, how could she bring another child into the world?  What if she is never ready? 

At ten weeks, she books an appointment.  It is a tentative thing, not something she is certain she will go through with, but an option, nonetheless.  If she decides she wants to, or, more likely, decides she _needs_ to, then she can do what she must—but she only has one week to decide.

One week is not nearly enough time to make a decision that will be with her for a lifetime, but on the field she makes those same decisions in seconds—when to shoot, whom to spare, whether or not to leave cover to tend to someone potentially too far gone.  All of these decisions have a life hanging in the balance, and a death with it, but this one is, somehow, too hard.

In one week, she has killed countless enemies, during one week she makes decisions which decide the fate of untold numbers of civilians, as she Gabriel and Jack decide where Overwatch would best serve the people, and for one week with her daughter, she sacrificed the future of her career.

(Perhaps it was not motherhood which took the opportunity from her, for it is Jack they made Strike Commander, in the end, foisting a covert ops division on Gabriel.  Perhaps it was that she was a woman, that she was not American, that her skin is too dark and her accent too strong to play well in the interviews Jack is giving even now.  Perhaps she was foolish to think that someone like her could ever have lead such a thing as Overwatch—but she would have been foolish, too, not to try.)

In one week, she can make a thousand decisions—but not this one.

Right now, she is certain that she does not want this child, does not want to be pregnant, does not want another mark against her on her otherwise impeccable record of service—for she knows, now, that such is how her being a mother is perceived—but she knows, too, that once they are born, she would love this child just as much as she loves Fareeha, for she loves being a mother, loves knowing that for all the terrible things she has been made to do, for all the lives she has taken, she has still added meaningfully to the world by having her daughter, a far better person than she.  Towards this child she would feel the same, she knows that, even if she does not want them now.

Would it be fair to have them, that is the greater question.  Would it be fair to Sam, knowing that he would have less time with them than with Fareeha, and that he dreamt of co-parenting, not the single parenthood duty and Crisis thrust upon him?  Would it be fair to Fareeha, who might worry that she was being replaced, given that a baby would have to live with Ana full time?  Would it be fair to the child, whose life would for her be forever a reminder of this time?  Could she treat them fairly, love them enough, knowing that she will associate their birth with this—the fact that she did not want to be pregnant, but felt that she could make no other decision?

Still, a part of her thinks that having an abortion would destroy her.  Already, she feels guilty enough over her role in _ending_ the Crisis, guilty for those lives which she failed to save, and the others which she failed to take in a timely manner.  To have an abortion would only compound those feelings, surely, for even if she knows that others believe differently, and that scientifically there is a difference between a fetus pre-viability and a baby, she does not feel they are so different, knows that even if they are not a baby yet when she has an abortion, she is killing the potential to become so.

How could she make such a decision?

She could not—will not—but not choosing is a decision in and of itself, for if she does not decide, then this will only end one way: a baby will be born, and she will be a mother again, whether she wants to be or not.

Or so she thinks, until she is showering one evening at eleven weeks, just two days before her appointment, and she looks down and sees familiar bright red in the water of the shower, and the beginning of cramps in her midsection.  She wants to—

—scream, raw and loud, the kind that tears at your throat and leaves you hoarse, a sound wrenched from her core as if she were an animal.

—laugh, at the absurdity of it all, sharp and bitter, because for all the agony attempting to decide caused her, the choice was never even hers to make.

—sob, because it is too much, _too much,_ she loses and she loses and she loses and still life finds that there is more from her to take.

—cry, but in relief not in pain, because she was not ready, was never going to be ready, and miscarrying saves her from herself, from the guilt of having had to decide.

—pray, but she does not know if she ought to do so for the soul of her second child who never will be, or in thanks, that she has been delivered of the torment of this choice.

Instead, she does none of those things.  What she does is this: she finishes rinsing the shampoo from her hair, washes the blood from herself, finds where she placed her pads months earlier, and calls Jack to say she will be skipping their morning run tomorrow.

She stays awake until the bleeding has slowed, and the cramping is tolerable, and is on time to work the next day.  If anyone notices that she is more tired than usual, or that she is acting any differently, they do not say it, and she does her best to treat the situation as a good soldier ought, putting it behind her.  That is the only way one can survive war; giving into grief allows one to be consumed by it.

Life must go on for the living.

 

2079.

When Ana gets the call, it is 04:30, a full 45 minutes before she typically rises, and she knows, before she answers, that it is an emergency.  She is fully awake instantly and—not panicked, for she has been in too many life or death situations to ever panic, anymore, but, she is—terrified, a feeling which only intensifies when the voice on the other end of the line is Angela’s telling her that she had better come to the Med Bay immediately.

 _Fareeha_ , she thinks—no, knows, for this must be something to do with her daughter, it must, it _must_ , for if it were an injury which required two pairs of hands, Lúcio is the one responsible tonight, and Athena would have been the one to notify her.

 _Fareeha_ , she repeats to herself, no less urgently, as she slides on her shoes as quickly as possible.  _Fareeha_ , as she runs out the door only in sleep pants and a tank top, forgoing even her hijab, because modesty could not be further from her mind.  _Fareeha_ , as she skids around a corner, the slippers she grabbed lacking the traction of her normal sandals.

 _Fareeha_ , as she runs up the stairs two at a time, _Fareeha,_ as she bursts through the door of the Med Bay, _Fareeha_ , as she makes her way into the small private room where,

“Fareeha?” is sitting in a chair near the examination table, not well, clearly, by the look on her face, but hardly dying, either.

Before her daughter can answer her, Angela pulls her aside, back out of the room and into the main portion of the Med Bay.  Ana’s first instinct is to fight out of that grip, to be at Fareeha’s side and to ask her daughter what has happened, what she needs, what can be done to make it better—but she knows, too, that Fareeha is no longer only the most important person in _her_ life, but in Angela’s, as well, and if her daughter-in-law has decided to have this conversation here, it is only because it is what she thinks is best for all of them.

Even so, her mind is with Fareeha when Angela speaks, not in the present, and so when Angela tells her what has happened the words wash over her.  _We lost the baby_ , Angela says, but Ana scarcely registers it.  She hears _She woke up bleeding_ and _I couldn’t find a heartbeat_ and _There wasn’t anything to be done_ , but the words scarcely register—she saw Fareeha, slumped in the chair with that look on her face, and she knew.  Already, she knew.

“What do you need?” she asks, interrupting the hundred different ways Angela has of apologizing—apologies are worthless, now, and _action_ , that is what can help.  Talking will solve nothing, will change nothing, and she needs to be there for her daughter, now, in any way she can. 

(She was alone, that is true, but she chose that.  If she had wanted, she could have called Sam, could have told him—told him what, exactly, she does not know, but something—and he would have been there for her.  But she chose that, and had not chosen to have a child.  Fareeha’s loss is greater, surely.)

“She won’t want to tell anyone,” Angela says, able in the way all doctors are to push tragedy aside in favor of business, when the time comes, “So I need to clean up before Lúcio arrives for his shift, and she needs to go back to our quarters.  Stay with her?”

The last part is meant to be an instruction, Ana thinks, but by the end Angela’s voice sounds less sure, more hurt, and Ana is forced to remember that this was Angela’s baby, too.

“Of course,” she says, and if she were a better woman she would say something to comfort Angela, would hold her reassuringly, would console her, but she is not—her worry is for Fareeha first, now and always, and she is already halfway back into the room by the time she finishes speaking.

(One person, she could handle, but not two, never two.)

Words fail her when she stands before her daughter, but she need not speak at all, for Fareeha collapses into her, face buried in her chest, and sobs, lurching and empty. 

“Shhh,” says she, “Shh,” as if her daughter were still a child crying after a nightmare.  What else can she do?  What else can she say?

( _It happened to me, too,_ is not a comfort, not now, not with something like this, is only an additional pain to bear so soon.)

There ought to be more she can say, more she can do, but right now, like this, Ana is powerless—no matter who is there with her, physically, Fareeha is her own microcosm of grief, is a world unto herself—and she knows it, for she has been in the same position before.  Nothing could make this better, could make this easier, could make this less lonely, only more comfortable.

So she does nothing; she stands, and she holds her daughter to her chest, and she does her best not to react, too, not to let her grief show on her face, because Fareeha does not need for her to cry, now, needs instead to be held and to be comforted and to be told that no, things will not be okay, but they will move on.  She does nothing, but she wants to cry—for her daughter, more than for the grandchild she will not have.  She does nothing, for she can do nothing, but she wishes she could have prevented this, somehow, could have saved her daughter the hurt, the feeling of failure, the belief that she is, somehow, responsible. 

Behind her, she is aware of Angela setting the room to rights, of her disposing of the clothing Fareeha was wearing when they rushed her, and the cloths used to clean up, is aware of the familiar typing of a medical file being updated, and she knows they must be running out of time.  The first active shift at the Med Bay begins at 05:00, and while Fareeha is going to need time and space to mourn, if she wants it to be private—and she will, for she is as proud and as stubborn as Ana herself, as unwilling to expose her weakness, her pain, her _failure_ to anyone else—then she cannot be seen here, now, like this.

(There is no shame in mourning, Ana knows, is even strength in it, at times—but she remembers how she felt, remembers choking on the guilt, the feeling of _failure,_ of being somehow unworthy or unwomanly or both for her inability to carry that child, and she remembers how desperately she hid it, remembers coming home from work and collapsing into bed, unable to even undress herself before dissolving into tears, but remaining stoic at work, as if nothing were amiss.  Most of all, she remembers being on the edge of tears in her office, and fighting it back, because if anyone _saw_ her crying then they might ask what was wrong, and she would not have been able to tell them, would not have survived them knowing, and thinking about her all the terrible things which she was at the time thinking of herself.  There is no shame in mourning, but it does not always feel that way, and Ana would far rather Fareeha not have to worry about such a thing right now, would spare her that additional stress and pain.)

When there is a lull in Fareeha’s crying, Ana tugs at her elbow, encouraging her to stand.  “Come on,” she says, as if Fareeha were again a child, and not an adult dealing with a uniquely adult grief, “Let’s go back to your rooms.”

Fareeha says nothing, only nods and acquiesces, her mind elsewhere.  For a moment, Angela moves into her space, murmurs something which Ana does not try to catch, and Fareeha seems to focus on that, face shifting in that instant from numbness to pain, and Ana’s instinct is to pull her away, to chastise Angela, to defend her daughter from whatever it was that was said—but she knows that pain can be good, can be important, and that if she robs Fareeha of the ability to feel, then she robs her of the ability to mourn properly, and to someday heal—before that, too, passes, and Fareeha’s face is overtaken by something so sad and tender that Ana feels the need to look away.

(She is not jealous, for that would be ridiculous, but she does feel shut out, knows that although she has suffered this loss before, Fareeha’s experience is entirely her own, and what Fareeha and Angela are going through—the loss of a planned child, as a couple—is something Ana will never know.  She is not jealous, but she wonders what it might have been, to have not been alone in her grief.)

When their conversation finishes, Fareeha moving past Ana and towards the door, she seems more herself, less a husk filled with grief and more a person again.  Even so, she moves through the halls as if she is not truly present, not seeming to see anything or pausing for a moment.

Fareeha outgrew Ana years ago, and now it is a struggle to keep pace with her daughter, who walks with the sort of speed Ana might expect of a woman on a mission, and not someone who is mourning.  Perhaps that should not surprise Ana, for she once responded the same way, found it easier to keep working, keep moving, so that she could ignore her pain and not be drowned in it.  Perhaps it should have been something she _expected_ , as she remembers well Fareeha leaving the room in a similar fashion after their biggest arguments, unwilling or perhaps unable to allow Ana to see her cry.  Perhaps it is in some way Ana’s fault, for she taught her daughter how to mourn.

Whatever the reason for their haste, Ana is grateful that Fareeha and Angela share the quarters nearest the Med Bay, in case Angela is needed for an emergency.  As it is, they are cutting quite close to the time at which agents begin to rise, and she does not want to be seen out and about like this, she sans hijab and in her pajamas, and Fareeha in a pair of too-short standard issue sweats given out at the Med Bay and a too-large shirt.  Their appearances would only invite questions which Fareeha is not ready to answer.

Behind them, the door closes with a click, lock mechanism engaging automatically, and Fareeha sags at the sound of it, the sharpness of her posture and the energy with which she walked gone in an instant.  Ana thinks to catch her but, no, Fareeha can stand on her own two feet, always has been able to.

Still—the thought is there.  Some part of Ana always will want to be there to hold her daughter, will want to catch her if she falls, even if she believes, no, _knows_ that Fareeha does not need her.

Or, Fareeha does not need her under ordinary circumstances.  Now, however, she does not seem the self-assured woman that Ana raised, admits, quietly and in their native tongue, “I don’t know what to do now.”

(Ana wishes she could say that she does not know, either, for she has for so much of her life not known the best course of action, has waited and wanted for things to be resolved until, abruptly, her decisions were made for her—or, worse, chosen and all too often lived to regret those decisions.  She wishes that now she could profess ignorance, tell Fareeha that she does not know what it is that comes next, that she almost never has, but Fareeha needs her now, needs her to be strong in a way she has not needed Ana in years, and, unfortunately, Ana _does_ know what comes next, does know how this goes.)

“First,” says she, eyeing critically the way in which the sweatpants Fareeha wears hang 10cm above her ankles, “Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

This seems a reasonable course of action, at least until Ana steps into Fareeha and Angela’s bedroom and sees on the stain on the sheets, blankets thrown from the bed to expose it.  She stops short, then, before Fareeha can walk in and trying—failing—to sound as if it is only a thought which has occurred to her in passing says, “Why don’t you go sit down, dear, and I’ll bring clothes out to you.”

If Fareeha wonders about the change in her tone, she says nothing, simply acquiesces in a way which worries Ana.  Fareeha is stubborn, always has been, and inquisitive as well, so normally she would question such a change in plans, would argue, would do anything but return to the couch in the living room, drawing her knees up to her chest and staring mid-distance.

Ana is worried, of course, but she knows, too, that she can worry just as well once she has gotten more suitable clothing for Fareeha, can speak when her daughter seems more ready.  So she gathers fresh pajamas, strips the sheets as quickly as she can, and heads into the bathroom to fetch a fresh pad if Fareeha needs one already, only to realize that she cannot find them.

“Fareeha?” she asks, handing her daughter the clothing she has retrieved, “Where do you keep the pads?”

Ana cannot see Fareeha’s face, given that she has turned her back to change, but Fareeha freezes halfway through pulling the t-shirt off of herself, “ _Shit_ ,” says she, surprising Ana with both her uncharacteristic use of vulgarity and the vehemence with which she says it, “I only use tampons.”

“It’s alright,” she says, and she wants to touch her daughter, to lay a hand on her shoulder or her back or her cheek so that Fareeha will feel comforted, but she knows by now that sometimes between her death and their reunion her daughter stopped being comfortable with touch from behind, so she can only stand and wait for Fareeha to finish changing, averting her eyes when Fareeha’s hands move to the band of her sweatpants and adding, “If you don’t need a fresh one yet, we can ask Angela to get one from the Med Bay for you later.”

A pause and then, “I don’t think I do?”

“You don’t think, or you don’t?” She wishes, as soon as she said it, that she were gentler, but such is not in her nature, and she needs to be certain of this.

“I don’t—I don’t want to look,” Fareeha admits.  “Not right now I—”

“You don’t have to,” she says, sitting down and motioning for Fareeha to sit beside her, “We can change it in a few hours, and if it feels like it’s leaking before then, we’ll get a fresh one.”

“Okay,” Fareeha says, and then, “Okay.  I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Ana pulls Fareeha close to her chest again, runs a hand through her soft hair, “Shh, you don’t have to apologize.”

Whatever Fareeha says in reply is not intelligible through her crying, so Ana simply makes soothing sounds and rocks her back and forth, hopes that will be soothing enough, although she cannot help but feel wholly inadequate.

(She has been through this.  She ought to know better what to do, what to say.  She should know from her experience what Fareeha needs, and be able to give advice based upon that.  How far along was Fareeha?  10 weeks, 11?  Her miscarriage was much the same.)

Their fragile peace is shattered by Angela returning to the quarters, her shadow cast across the two of them from the other end of the couch.  From the direction Fareeha is seated, she cannot see Angela’s face, and once Ana catches a glimpse of it, she holds Fareeha tighter to her chest, does not want her to see how heartbroken Angela looks.

“I told Jack Fareeha was sick,” she says, “And I updated her medical records so they’d… so they’d reflect that….”

From the wobbling of her lip, and the way her voice trails off, Ana knows that she is only moments from crying.  If Ana were a more altruistic person, she might be able to claim that what she does next is for Angela’s benefit, because she knows her daughter in law is not comfortable crying in front of _anyone_ , and will want to be able to deal with this loss alone, but when Ana says, “She needs you to go buy pads,” she is thinking only of Fareeha, only that she can only comfort one person at once, and if given the choice she would choose her daughter every time.

Angela shoots her a smile that could almost be thankful, says she will be back quickly, and flees the room.  Were she not so worried about the woman in her arms right now, about how _Fareeha_ was feeling, she might feel bad, sending Angela away to break down in the car, far from prying eyes, but she does not, cannot.

(Ana only has room in her heart for one person, and she chose Fareeha.  She _chose_.)

“I failed her,” Fareeha says, barely a whisper, “Again.  Her, and you, and Jesse.”

“You didn’t fail us,” Ana says, and knows her daughter will have trouble believing it; this, too, is a reason why it was important that she send Angela away, she has watched her daughter grow guiltier and guiltier still with each failed attempt at conception.  To have finally fallen pregnant, only to lose the baby so close to the second trimester—Ana cannot know how that feels, does not even want to imagine it, but she knows it would do Fareeha no good to see Angela crying, not right now.

“I _did_ ,” Fareeha says, with a stubbornness, a vehemence that Ana knows was inherited from her.  “I must have done _something_ , must have worked out too hard or not slept enough or worried too much that, that—”

“No,” Ana cuts her off, “You didn’t do anything.  These things happen, sometimes.”

“You didn’t even have to try!” her the sudden anger surprises Ana, but perhaps it should not.  “You and Dad weren’t even together, and yet I have Angela helping me track ovulation and time insemination and I _still_ can’t get pregnant, and now that I have I—” Fareeha stops there, voice breaking.

“It happens,” Ana repeats, and, before she can doubt her decision, “It happened to me too.”

“What?” Fareeha sounds shocked, and apologetic, sad, and a hundred other emotions Ana cannot name in the moment, “When?  I don’t remember—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Ana, “You were eight; you didn’t know.  No one did.”

“Not even Dad?”

“What would I have told him?  I didn’t tell you I was pregnant,” _because I was considering an abortion,_ “but I was, and now I’ve miscarried?”  She wants to laugh, at the end of that sentence, but it comes out more like a choked sob, wrenched from somewhere deep inside of herself she did not know still harbored grief, shaken free of the place inside her it had taken hold by the very act of her finally saying the words aloud.  “I didn’t want to hurt him, or you.”

“I’m sorry,” Fareeha repeats, and she is still crying, has been this whole time, but now she has wrapped her arms around Ana, so that both of them are holding one another.  “It’s terrible.  You shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have been alone, Mum.”

“Shh,” says she, rocking Fareeha, and herself along with her, “I’m not alone, and neither are you.”

(In another life, she would have disputed it, would have said that it should not have been terrible, that she did not deserve to mourn a child she was not certain she would have wanted—but she is not crying, now, for that maybe-child, but for herself, the version of herself who felt so alone, and so helpless, who was robbed of any choice by fate and circumstances beyond her control.)

“I’m here, now,” she says, “I’m here,” and she needs to hear it, for herself as much as for Fareeha, “We both are, and we’ll get through this, okay?”

“Okay,” Fareeha agrees, and she says it with the certainty Ana never had.

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. pretty heavy stuff. hopefully you all headed the warnings but if u didnt and this has left u in a bad place... seriously you can dm me on twitter if you need to talk. or tumblr or wherever. 
> 
> i guess i really wanted to explore anas agency and how she really like... doesnt so much make decisions, but rather defers them until finally things blow up on her and shes stuck with one option. see: her getting "killed" when she cant decide to leave ovw or not, her not picking a side when jack and gabe wanted her to do that and them deciding what that meant for her, the timing of the omnic crisis stopped her from getting to choose whether or not she wanted to become a civilian post-fareeha and marriage, etc etc. so like... this was really just all for the purposes of that but then i was like AH-HA! A PLOT! IT'S TOTALLY NOT AN EXTENDED METAPHOR! plus i have a huge problem w how fandom romanticizes accidental pregnancy/doesnt address miscarriage & etc so two birds one stone
> 
> hopefully u... i dont wanna say enjoyed but like u know... got outta this what u wanted?
> 
> pls leave a comment! unless ur comment is an ideological disagreement with abortion, islam, and/or lesbianism bc im just gonna delete that like ?? sorry???
> 
> also yeah lmao jesse got mentioned bc hes the sperm donor and i think its in character for fareeha to think of him, too


End file.
